


Imaginary Trust

by CaptainLeBubbles



Series: Ineffable Bureaucracy to the tune of Set It Off [1]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Hook-Up, Idiots in Love, Implied Sexual Content, Ineffable Bureaucracy (Good Omens), Other, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 06:31:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19847500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainLeBubbles/pseuds/CaptainLeBubbles
Summary: "This is the last time we do this," Beelzebub says. Beelzebubalwayssays.Gabriel pushes, but knows better than to push too hard.





	Imaginary Trust

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song [Ancient History](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pYjIp9KRCzI).
> 
> This technically takes place in the same continuity as the wedding fic on the grounds that all of my headcanons for them are in tact for it, but it's not really relevant and is only one possible path so can be read alone.

In London there's a flat. It's big, modern, well-kept, and almost always, at all times, empty.

The neighbors don't really know anything about the man who owns the flat. They've seen him in passing, occasionally: Mr. Arc, they know him as, an American businessman who keeps the flat for the occasion that his business brings him to the UK. They don't know beyond that. They don't know why he keeps a flat he uses, at most, a few days out of the year- surely a hotel room would be less expensive? They don't know why they never really see him arrive or leave.

"He keeps it for his mistress," one woman speculates. "You see them here together sometimes. Small woman. Matted hair. Wears a hat looks like a fly."

The others have never seen any such woman. They tell her this, and she grumbles before changing the subject.

They don't know how close to being right she is, though everything about her words implies a very different arrangement than the one that is actually going on.

-/-

Gabriel is in the middle of a meeting with Michael when he gets the text. There's no visible substance to the text- just a fly emoji beside a lightning bolt. He returns his phone to his pocket and makes his excuses to Michael, who glares at him over the interruption, and then turns to leave, ignoring the admonishments, thoughts already ahead of him, to a flat in London that he only keeps for this exact reason.

-/-

Beelzebub has been raging for a good ten minutes now, ranting about the almost childish way Hastur and Dagon argue, and now stops, words trailing off and head hanging heavy, rage being replaced by creeping exhaustion. No, no, this will never do. Gabriel catches that face in his hands, tilts it back, traces thumbs across soft cheeks and brushes gently at eyes that flutter open slowly. Pale blue eyes meet his, and he smiles, and leans down to brush a kiss over each one, eyelids fluttering briefly closed again under his lips.

“There’s those eyes I love," he says, and like a switch Beelzebub's rage is back.

“ _Szzhut up_. This izzn’t _love_.” Beelzebub is smaller than him, but strong enough to shove him back onto the bed that only exists in this place for _this_.

He bounces a little when he lands and looks around, leaned back on his elbows in a way that could _almost_ be called lazy. His plain cream and powder blue bedding has been replaced by decadent black and midnight silk. He looks back with an approving smile. “Nice.”

“I zzaid zzhut _up_.” Beelzebub follows him with a forceful motion that can’t really be called graceful and suddenly Gabriel finds himself with a lapful of Hell-Prince, straddling his hips and glaring down at him. He reaches up, needing to touch again, and his wrists are caught in vice-like fingers, held in place, in midair between them. “Thisz iz _phyzical_. This is _releasze_.”

This last is punctuated by a grinding of hips against his that leaves no question of how much these actions are causing his blood to burn and sing in his veins, but instead of the hoped-for reaction he just smiles again and surges forward, one hand freeing itself to tangle in matted hair while he claims the prince’s lips with his own.

“I won’t lie,” he says, moving to trace feather-light kisses along the space where, in hell, the skin has started to rot away. He always knows, can always tell, always finds it. “This is what it is, whether you accept it or not.”

This earns him a slap, and he’s pushed back down, body flush against his and a snarl buzzed into his ear. “ _I do not love you,”_ and, “ _You will not decide that I do,”_ and “ _Thizz iz the lazt time we do thiz.”_

-/-

Beelzebub likes getting dressed the old fashioned way. Gabriel glances aside to the rack where his suit has been neatly folded (thoughtful), immaculate apart from the places where it was rumpled before being miracled away.

Beelzebub is wearing an undershirt now (no bra), and trousers (no belt, no underwear), but doesn’t seem interested in much more. Gabriel feels underdressed now; he gives a lazy wave of his hand and is back in his union suit, but otherwise doesn’t move from the nest of pillows and silk sheets he’s been left in. He feels too good to move.

(Sore, aching in exactly the way he likes to ache when Beelzebub is done with him. One day he’ll return the favor: one day his prince will let him lavish all of his affection and adoration onto a willing recipient. Until then he’ll take this and enjoy the way his corporation thrums in delight whenever they’re together.)

“Come here,” he says, holding out one arm, and after a disgusted look Beelzebub joins him on the bed, sprawled out belly-down, arms curled around a pillow but face turned to him with a tenderness he doesn’t usually get to see. He ignores the affected apathy and slings one arm over the prince’s back, rolling to bury his face in one clammy shoulder.

The first soft kiss gets him a warning buzz; the second he’s shaken off and Beelzebub rolls away, back to him. He retracts his arm and sighs.

“I really wish you’d just let me love you like you deserve,” he murmurs, carefully not pushing any harder.

“I have no wizzh to experienze what the Archangel _fucking_ Gabriel thinkz love iz. And I told you, thiz is the lazt time we do thiz."

For just a moment it seems as though there might be more, and then Gabriel is alone. He flops onto his back and burrows deeper into his nest of silk.

In a few minutes, he’ll miracle his suit back on and leave, and the little flat will return to being empty until the next time they meet, until the next time Beelzebub calls him from the pits of hell and demands his attentions. But for right this moment he cocoons himself in the bedding Beelzebub miracled up for them and surrounds himself with the warm lingering thrum of love his prince isn’t yet ready to speak out loud.

**Author's Note:**

> Beelzebub and Gabriel are at opposite extremes and are having to slowly navigate their way along different paths to the same destination before they can really be what they need to be. Which is kind of how I read all of heaven and hell in Good Omens; opposite extremes, and earth as a place they can meet in the middle and become something better.


End file.
